A Yorkshireman of a certain age who likes most genres of music and most makes of old car. Travel is a joy, not least to escape the British winter. Travel by bicycle is bliss and if I’m not lost in music then I’m lost in a daydream about a hot day, tens of miles to cover and the promise of a great campsite and a beer. I like to think I’m always learning and becoming wiser. However, on the latter point evidence is in short supply.
View all posts by tonyives →
It was clear that Sri Lanka had its tensions despite their suppression of the Tamil uprising in the 90s. On our February holiday we learned much of this history. The bloodshed was horrific and deeply divisive. The Tamils are Hindus and the majority, the Singalese, are Buddhists. In the religious mix of the island are also Christians and Muslims. If the Sri Lankan government are to be believed then the latest appalling atrocity is by a Muslim terrorist group. However our trip to the island was delightful. We visited Hindu and Buddhist temples and safely traversed the southern half of the island in a bus. The island didn’t look prosperous and with so many mouths to feed and so few resources this is probably the reality of the whole of South Asia. You can imagine that this ferments deep unhappiness.
The scale of this atrocity is devastating and not least for the Sri Lankan economy. Tourism brings in the most foreign revenue. I cannot imagine that this will do anything other than destroy hotel bookings, guided tours, bus company revenues and the income of thousands upon thousands of Sri Lankan workers for many many months/years to come.
Near tragedy might have been closer to home but by a thread. Sophie (Favourite Youngest Daughter) took her car into Kwik Fit in Fallowfield, Manchester for two new tyres. They were fitted and she drove away. The next day, coming across to Leeds, she heard a “rattle” but drove on despite a car full of colleagues, including one who was pregnant. She eventually left them in Leeds and drove over to York thinking the rattle was getting worse. Here she went out shopping with her mother who thought it best that they divert via a Kwik Fit in the town.
There the fitter discovered that out of the necessary five nuts holding on the wheel there was only one. The other four hadn’t been tightened up, had come loose and flown off the wheel. Needless to say she and her mother were badly shaken and angry at what could have been a catastrophe. From here we’ve invloved many parties to establish what happened and for her employers and lease company to know of this incompetence.
My in-laws’ care home is a fine place with a lot of expertise and pleasant surroundings. When you first visit you delude yourself that it is probably not a bad place to spend your last days. The problem, of course, is that if you end up here you yourself are not in sparkling condition. Your enjoyment of the service, food, facilities is limited dependent on your faculties – physical and mental.
My mother-in-law, a lady with no diminution of any intellectual faculties, reported that the better weather had lured some of the ‘inmates’ from the first floor downstairs and outside onto the patio. She hadn’t seen some of them for a while and engaged one lady who she’d talked to a few months ago. Rather worryingly she enquired at what time “the ferry came”. Margaret brushed this off with some comment. The same lady in a conversation with another resident confidently advised her companion that “she was dead”. Reassurance that she’d be unable to converse if this actually was the case cut no ice: she was convinced that she was dead. Only later I concluded that this probably wasn’t as daft (as it obviously was). I think we all know people that to all intents and purposes are dead albeit with a heartbeat and movement.
Anna, who likes the odd TV ‘who dunnit’ is having a splendid time on ancestry.com putting together family trees on her and my side of the family. I knew about quite a lot of this lineage, vaguely. I had a maternal great grandfather depart Poland in the 19th Century when Poland was part of the then Russian Empire. He was Jewish. He was proud of his new home and became a naturalised Brit. Meanwhile his wife came from Ireland. She wasn’t fleeing the Russians with her family but no doubt her father was escaping poverty and potato blight in rural County Roscommon. Anyway she is digging deep into a lot of documentation that resides on the site and I await with interrest further discoveries.
I wrote about Leeds United last week . Since then a fatal defeat against a lowly team with only 10 men at home beggared belief. With it came our capitualtion of an automatic promotion spot. From here came another defeat and all of a sudden it was over. There are the play offs ahead but we look like an exhausted and defeated crew. The disappointment in and around the city is like a bereavement.
I also mentioned researching a tour in Australia. I’ve been reading several blogs of many different age groups, men and women and those who do high or low mileages etc etc. An interesting description of elderly male cycle tourers has emerged: ‘grey nomads’. I think I may have a new name!
Lastly my cycling mentor, Tim, continues to add to my knowledge of his life and relatives. We recently cycled past his sister’s house (and small holding) and more excitingly passed the very grass tennis court where he has made his one and only appearance on the green stuff (Sutton On Derwent – look for the blue plaque). Adding to my entertainment was his near death when turning onto the very busy A1079 to Hull. He managed to aggravate a swerving massive articulated lorry that sat on his horn to express his displeasure. If he keeps up those high jinx up then he may not be available to cycle with me for much longer.
Some long term tenants have moved out of a flat we rent out. Their departure led to some extensive refurbishment of the property. The tenants were good housekeepers but accumulated lots of items for a house they proposed to buy. We couldn’t move all the stuff around to enable decoration or laying new carpets. They went and we got down to it. The flat now looks brilliant. The new tenants are Chinese nationals. Both academics in their 30s and studying for PhD’s. Routine checks for financial capability were completed but as they don’t earn a salary our questions, via the letting agent, were searching. This was brushed aside with a bit of a shrug as they showed us accounts showing tens of thousands of pounds. Clearly the East isn’t short of dosh.
The Chinese lady who did the transaction was fine to deal with although worryingly certain of her decision to take the property. She just got off a train from Bath, had a cursory look around and wanted to take it immediately. After you’ve spent £2,500 on its transformation you’d like her to look around and take in the work! Another thing that came to mind was how their tenancy was fine and simply a ‘deal’ between two sets of ordinary and civil folk. However I am terribly suspicious of most things to do with China and it’s government: a one party state that bans Facebook, Google, Instagram, Twitter etc, build islands in the South China Sea (and then claims exclusion zones around them), attempts to brain wash the Uighur muslim minority of (one million) in concentration camps and occupies Tibet with the dilution, control and marginalisation of the indigenous population.
As I’ve written elsewhere then if your grand parents or even parents grew up in poverty, survived literal genocide and had no opportunity to ever improve themselves then this generation has arrived into a much better China. Who cares about democracy, being continually under intensive surveillance and debilitating corruption of the elite when you can now buy Chanel, a Mercedes Benz and watch Premiership football?
On that subject then Leeds United’s progress toward the Premiership is beyond stressful. As I write then the opportunity is in our own hands and we need to win three of our last four games and draw the other. Still a big ‘ask’ and a challenge that will keep me on edge until May.
Record Store Day (RSD) is a clever ruse by the industry to extract money from record collectors, promote record shops and generate some excitement for vinyl. Every April it comes around all over the world. The promotion is all about new releases of vinyl albums, EP’s and singles. These releases coincide with RSD and when the limited quantities have gone they’re gone! The new records are not regular releases of new work. They are often older artists but usually rarities that have not been released before. For example the Ten Years After album in the image below contains some tracks surplus to the recording session for their 1972 “Rock n’ Roll Music To The World’ LP. To add to the excitement then this album is on green see through vinyl! Of course the releases are limited editions and hence the value can probably appreciate. Anyway I bought the Ten Years After and Jethro Tull unreleased music out of over 100 new vinyl releases. I could have been 17 years old as this was the last time I bought two albums together by these artists.
Vinyl Eddie’s in York is the small specialist shop I got them from. First thing on RSD morning there was a queue outside the place waiting for it to open. It was a ‘first come first served’ opportunity to get the records. If you were late then you might not get what you wanted.
A little time is being spent on research on a major cycle trip – the east coast of Australia in 2020. In July I’ll be riding to Vienna from York. I can’t wait but it is a familiar expedition through countries I know well. The Australian jaunt is a major leap into the unknown. I’m thinking of riding from Adelaide to Cairns: over 3,000 miles. It seems very doable but not without considerations of sun, traffic and crocodiles to plan for. Anyway watch this space.
In other news Julian Assange has been sprung from the Ecuadorian Embassy. Putting to one side all his alleged criminal activities and the future peril this places him in with the UK, USA and Sweden I had other thoughts. After spending seven years imprisoned in the London embassy he must surely have been pleased to get out, even though the novelty may soon wear off as he becomes a guest at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Lastly, I reflected on a few old colleagues who are either changing jobs in their mid fifties or people I know still flourishing at ages nearer to sixty than fifty. Back in 2008 at the age of 53 after a sudden redundancy I felt very old in a job market that was shrinking dramatically due to the recession. I drove up and down the country for meetings, submitted endless cv’s, got into interview situations on about eleven occasions and yet after a really successful previous career I couldn’t get a job offer. After about 5 months something came along in consultancy. The job never thrilled me as regards a career move, it was a salary only. In truth, I was never very good at it or enjoyed it. Hence I retired at 58.
It seems to me that nowadays there are more older senior people in jobs. Attitudes have changed to the older worker. It also helps to have a more buoyant economy and a shortage of experienced talent.
So Tim sent a Messenger message. He’s bought a new bike and would I fancy going out for a bike ride? Well why not?
Tim’s an old colleague that I worked with over a decade ago. We’d stayed in touch and he’d found himself between jobs. That’s not as bleak as it reads. He’d taken up an offer to join a competitor and his old firm had put him on gardening leave. So in between all the decorating, gardening and other (wife enthused) tasks he’d been keeping fit.
He’d known about my bike riding (who doesn’t?) and despite him doing about 100 miles a week (!) since February he was concerned that he might not be good enough to keep pace with me. This anxiety wasn’t shared by me. Frankly anyone can ride a bike and as I’m giving him nine years in age (and he’s quite a decent sportsman) I wasn’t expecting to teach him much despite his touching humility.
So when we met up with a planned 47 mile round trip he presents himself looking fit with his new bike and some top quality branded kit. I smelt a rat. Off we went. Tim kept nicely in front of me; chatting away merrily. I’m pedalling as fast as I can (or want to without exhausting myself) trying to catch his conversation in a headwind. He must have enjoyed talking to himself as he talked for quite sometime with no audible response from me.
Tim obviously realised that he was the stronger and feeling no sympathy didn’t slow down and ploughed on! Eventually we got to the cafe for the teacake and cuppa. I think I’d caught my breath by the end of the break. At the end of our race/ride I surprisingly agreed to go out again but farther and more hilly.
I tend to fit in a hard ride every week and such a route up to Helmsley with the promise of fish and chips is a great trip. This time the pecking order was established but still the pressure switched back to me as I knew the route. So grinding up hills Tim might sit in behind me and when he got bored with my lacklustre pace he’d come alongside and start a conversation. At this point I think, with my burning lungs, I might have only been able to say “stop” or “oxygen”. Tim did however tire of slipstreaming (and going slowly) and started to disappear up the gradients ahead of me. I wasn’t sorry to see him go, not least to admire his expensive wardrobe from behind.
Around twenty years ago or even longer I used to ride out with other work colleagues and a splendid time we had as younger men climbing the steepest that Yorkshire had to offer. I enjoyed the banter, the sprinting up hills and general competition. It was a long time ago: now I cycle alone and after a knee problem had got comfortable with trundling along with little ambition of time trialling. Riding with Tim became
an opportunity to train and get a lot faster again. Checking my times when riding with him I was 5 – 10% faster and back to speeds I might have done over 5 years ago. Terrific. Also I started taking the rides a lot more seriously with pasta the night before, a decent breakfast, a couple of glucose gels for a boost in my pocket, not wearing headphones (listening to podcasts) and thinking about the ride before I set off to ensure I knew what was coming.
This had it’s benefits and when Tim ‘went up the road’ he didn’t get a million miles away (ie. I could still see him in the distance). Needless to say by this stage I was probably trying more than him and he might have been cycling at a decent pace just to keep warm! I noted that he was now carrying gels himself (a backhanded compliment if there ever was one). A more dubious benefit was his chirping away. As a man who’d cycled these routes tens of times alone with little interest in the surroundings I was suddenly informed about his parent’s houses, houses nearly bought, football pitches used for training, birds of prey on the wing and former building sites managed leading to reprimands from Managing Directors.
In return I taught Tim how to buy a sandwich and eat it in the open air. When this was proposed there was much disinterest and the option of a cake was treated with absolute dismissive contempt (“Does Mark Cavendish stop for flapjack?”). However 2½ hours later after climbing 600 metres a sandwich became the highlight of the outing (despite my eating his choice by accident!).
I’m using this ‘mentoring’ to revisit some of my better recent times on routes. And who knows when Tim returns to work I may be found tagging along at the back of the Tour de Yorkshire peloton.
Colin Blunstone’s (and The Zombies) popularity came home to me when I was walking through downtown Las Vegas in 2017. On the street tannoy I heard ‘She’s Not There’. (I always absorb background music around me and process the oddity of the selection in surprising locations). This hit climbed to No. 2 in the US charts in 1964. I missed out on The Zombies, even I was young in 1964, but I had adored and seen the two separate acts that came out of their disbandment.
The keyboard player formed Prog rockers Argent. Rod Argent wrote ‘She’s Not There’ and had several hits after. I saw them a couple of times and bought the albums. Colin Blunstone, The Zombies unmistakable lead vocalist, didn’t follow Rod Argent into his band: he pursued a solo career and released some fabulous albums. These would have been filed under Singer Songwriter back in the day. Blunstone’s voice had a sweeping range from mellow to falsetto but also had a seductive depth as soft as cashmere and smooth as honey.
Blunstone never seemed to get a lot of commercial success and whilst he’s been releasing albums over the years then our collective desire for nostalgia and the power of the ‘grey pound/dollar’ seems to have reignited the septuagenarian’s bank account. I’m so delighted about his success. Maybe about a decade ago I saw him in York in a small band with Rod Argent playing some of his catalogue but mainly Argent’s. His show at Pocklington Art Centre, North Yorkshire saw him fronting a five piece band and giving full rein to his catalogue and blissful voice.
In a 90 minute set over 23 songs he brought the sold out show to their feet with album tracks, singles and those Zombies’ hits. I’ve referenced the mellifluous voice but behind him was an accomplished band. Manolo Polidario was nothing short of staggering on acoustic and electric guitars. His dexterity and speed were eye catching. Pete Billington, band leader, on keyboards got several opportunities to step up whether on piano or organ and often these solos were a highlight.
Not all the seats were occupied by devotees (my wife!) but his canon included a couple of covers that helped those less familiar get comfortable with his work. Tracks from 1971’s One Year and 1972’s Ennismore came back to back – “Misty Roses”, “Caroline Goodbye”, “Though You Are Far Away”, “Let Me Come Closer To You”, “Say You Don’t Mind”, “I Don’t Believe In Miracles’ and “Andorra”. The singles “Wonderful”, “Time Of The Season” and “She’s Not There” eventually appeared as the audience sat enrapt.
The banter between songs emphasised what a charming man he is. He acknowledged an old school friend in the audience which set him on a long deprecating speech about his own academic mediocrity! He covered his recent appearance in Cleveland, OH playing to 30,000 at The Zombies induction into ‘The Rock n’ Roll Hall Of Fame’, buying a new outfit for the appearance that needed a second mortgage to pay for it and what the flight there and back inflicted on his throat through the dryness of the air.
Much to everyone’s disappointment the band ripped into the last song of the night – The Zombies “Just Out Of Reach” and he was gone leaving the crowd wanting more.
Postscript:
Blunstone had a support act. This wasn’t a good thing as far as I was concerned. Onto the stage crept a fit looking tall older bloke with an acoustic guitar, baseball hat (we were inside and this is England) and a white beard complaining of a voice strain through a heavy cold. Not propitious and I wondered how many people I’d disturb by shuffling out in the dark to the bar! However his songs were fine and he did light up the auditorium. This was when he declared he’d been married to Donna Summer for 32 years until her untimely death. This illumination came as everyone looked at Wikipedia on their smart phones thinking is this guy for real? He was and his name is Bruce Sudano.
If you’re engaged with Americana or Country music you’ll know about the bitter civil war that is taking place. Those who think they know better are apoplectic that Country Pop (as mass produced by the Big Three record companies) is taking up all the US radio airplay and being heavily promoted. This is whilst the ‘real’ product is marginalised and left to wither.
Well, that may be true commercially. However, if people are buying and enjoying Country Pop (and it isn’t as fatal as crack cocaine) then maybe something’s changed and we should just accept this as an era in the life of the genre? I’m proud to say I once walked out of a Florida Georgia Line concert whilst several thousand others had the best hour or so of their lives. I get the traditionalists’ pain but if Alan Jackson is complaining about US Country radio then I’m suspicious that his real complaint is that it’s inhibiting his down payment on another Lear jet.
Anyway, Chad Richard has a fabulous album that may be a refugee in the Americana genre due to Kane Brown and Kelsea Ballerini but it is released and you should give it a listen : you just need to look a bit more thoroughly for it. We’re here to help.
Album Review:
Chad Richard says he once got some advice about not turning something you love into a job. So for many years he had a job in a Louisiana chemical plant only playing small gigs. Walt Wilkins heard him and asked him to sit in with his band. From here things progressed and a debut album released in 2015. This is his second release: produced by Wilkins. For the record Wilkins’ compiled a great band with players who ordinarily work with Ryan Bingham, Band Of Heathens and Kelly Willis. The result is a contemporary yet classic sounding Country album.
“Slow Rollin Stateline” hits a soulful easy groove to kick off 12 self penned songs. Marian Brackney’s fiddle leads the tune and Wilkins guitar adds some tasteful licks. The chorus places you way down South – “Zydeco to the East and gumbo too, Texas swing to the West, the world’s best barbecue, Sweet memories of these two states of mine, Flow like that Muddy, slow rolling Stateline”. “Love Anyway” has clever wordplay around the theme grace and mercy and generally getting along. His voice sits way up front over a gentle shuffling rhythm and strings add saccharine to the melody. His voice can carry a tune with a deep reflective care worn timbre welded to a delicious Southern drawl. It also drips personality that helps adds great emphasis to the message.
“Waters Rise” is topical. With sonorous backing vocals (Tina Mitchell Wilkins) he sings to the accompaniment of an electric piano of how people rally round to deal with such catastrophes and rise up higher than the water. “Worthy Cause” could be Chris Stapleton with a bluesy vocal over a minimum of backing. He puts his heart into this love ballad and we bathe in that expressive voice whilst eventually a piano (Chip Dolan) and lap steel (Corby Schaub) take this home.
Topics chosen are engaging, and include ghosts, the kindness of strangers, single parenting and, to prove that this is a bone fide Country album, he even ‘pops a top’ and sings about a dog. However for all of that he can construct an arresting line or two and in the wistful “The Game” (about a solo troubadour playing the circuit) he sings – ‘Waitress cleans off a table while she talks to me, Says she’s been workin in here since ’93, The sad smile she wears makes it easy to see, She ain’t exactly where she hoped to be”.
He’s a man with a number of miles on the clock and a great observer. Coupled with this is his ability to find a thoughtful lyric to articulate it and not least an ear for a tune. This record is a great listen with no filler and it is quite baffling how a thing of such great beauty had to be self released. I’m really hoping he gets some traction and finds a larger audience.
So with a little trepidation I traversed the North Yorkshire Moors to join Peter, Mike and William for a heavy weekend in Whitby. They were driving down from Edinburgh on their annual cultural exchange. I say heavy because two days are spent drinking and eating things that anyone hoping to reach a normal retirement age would assiduously control. To accelerate the reduction in lifespan all was consumed in excess.
A weekend including 45mph winds and a Saturday with a 96% chance of rain were anticipated. Last year it was the ‘Beast from the East’ and so plans for outdoor exercise remained flexible. However after ‘checking in’ to the apartment it was off to ‘The Moon and Sixpence’ for a bite to eat. The party had already consumed some bottled beer imported from north of the border. Starting as we meant to go on we adjourned to ‘The Ship’ for our 2019 inaugural pub pint. Now slightly lubricated dinner was eaten and Mike reaffirmed his friendship by commenting that “a Yorshireman is like a Scotsman but with all the goodness squeezed out of him”. The meal was excellent although there was considerable muttering, from the Scots, about paying £5 for an ice cream dessert. My muttering was about why, with flowing beer, a bottle of red wine was ordered?
Left to right – me, Peter, Mike and William
Surprising was that the threesome, in five years, have never had the fourth invited person return the next year until I showed up. Brief summaries were given on the previous cast members and Mike was especially disparaging about Alan who’d observed “you all eat and drink too much”. Another, Jim, crossed a red line by having oatmeal or similar for one of his breakfasts; clearly only carnivores with a death wish are welcome. I made a mental note to step up.
So with some cycling planned for the next day, in possibly torrential rain and gales, we resolved to take it easy on the night with alcohol. Naturally with all the beer and wine consumed with the meal we couldn’t walk past ‘The Jolly Sailors’. As usual William was appointed bursar. Given the considerable responsibility of managing the repeatedly emptying kitty he was like a small child on Christmas morning as he returned from the bar with four pints: it had only cost him £8. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he planned on returning to Edinburgh to change his name by deed poll to Sam Smith. These were downed and the long walk to the apartment was planned but a fatal attraction to ‘The Buck Inn’, next door, was too hard to overcome and we became acquainted with another dead Yorkshiremen, Timothy Taylor.
This was a karaoke bar and much bellowing ensued to Queen, Doris Day, Frank Sinatra, Kool & The Gang, Oasis and The Spice Girls.
We now did return to the apartment and as I had rejected Peter’s advances to sleep with him, due to a shortage of beds, I evicted William and Mike from the living room and set up camp by blowing up my airbed and unpacking my sleeping bag.
On Saturday I was a little ragged after a mediocre night’s sleep and earlier indulgences but I was considerably lifted by all three reporting similar fragility. Maybe anno domini was catching up with them? When dressed we walked into town to feast at ‘The Singing Kettle’, a ‘greasy spoon’ par excellence. With all our cholesterol levels restored we returned to the apartment and found our bikes. The plan was to ride south on the cinder track that connected Whitby and Scarborough. By being an old rail route up until 1965 it would be rolling but never have any serious hills.
I think the last time I rode a mountain bike I had a full head of hair. As a consequence as we set off I was trying to find where all the gears were and realising that I was riding on muddy tracks replete with puddles in rain with no mudguards. I think we were only about a mile down the track before I was splattered and sodden beyond belief.
The ride was terrific and we soon arrived at Robin Hood’s Bay. Not content with an intended 32 mile round trip we went off the route and descended to the sea. This was the easy bit. Girding our loins we returned up the hill, the gradient was monstrous and near to the top approached 30%. I could turn the pedals but I felt at one point that the bike would tip over backwards. Truth be told that had I not faced the prospect of remorseless ridiculing I would have got off!
So on we went down the track, in the rain, and enjoyed the coastal views.
Eventually ‘The Hayburn Wyke Inn’ came into view and a much needed sign indicated ‘pub’. I needed a drink as my water bottle was covered in grit and I had used most of its contents to sluice my spectacles and computer to assist visibility. At this point William got a puncture and I was de-gritted by a helpful Mike who couldn’t believe his luck at pouring cold water onto me.
We spelched into the pub and enjoyed a sandwich and some soup. Judging by the amount of mud I left in the Gents, after cleaning my cycling kit, I would expect to be banned. A roaring fire enabled some drying or at least making things that were sodden warm. Alcohol was eschewed except for Peter having a half to humiliate the Braveheart twins.
Michael enjoying being photographed…
The ride back to Whitby was splendid but I got caked again and on the outskirts of Whitby managed to get a puncture. A very cold walk through town followed looking a real mess to the flat where I bagged the shower first. Some clothing was too muddy to bring in the flat but other items were lobbed into the washing machine.
So if my own sport was a challenge then my other sports teams were having even less success. Leeds United lost a ‘must win’ game and England rugby union played two matches over 80 minutes — the first they won and the second they lost. This wouldn’t have mattered had it not been against Scotland! Mike and William went from morose resigned torpor to animated shouting delight in 10 minutes. If I do get invited for 2020 I shall check the Six Nations fixture list prior to accepting (as I can’t bear seeing such happy men).
The boys had despatched a few bottles prior to visiting the ‘Black Horse Inn’ and then it was onto ‘The Endeavour”. Here my newly confirmed status was confirmed as I was trusted with part of the kitty and directed toward ‘Mr Chippy’ to buy four portions of fish and chips. I bustled out of the pub feeling that I had been promoted to something as lofty as ‘Form Monitor’ and discharged my procurement responsibilities with much pride. William, who’d been struggling with some bodily emissions, was eyed with apprehension as he forked his mushy peas. With our meal complete we progressed to the quiz. I compile and circulate a general knowledge competition. I think it’d be fair to say that I enjoy this more than the competitors but they grin and bear it.
Mike wasn’t aware that our future King and his wife had beget a daughter let alone what they called any of the three children. He came third. I had thought that the other William would walk it but Peter won. (Not the result I was aiming for). I expect my exclusion of sport, contemporary culture, politics and reality TV helped him. Being gracious in accepting his title of ‘Quiz Meister’ he derided Mike for actually thoroughly reading all the questions and considering all the multiple choice answers (not that, in fairness, it appeared to help him much).
With this part of the schedule completed it was off to ‘The Elsinore’ for the main event. The place was heaving; a blues band was belting out everything between B B King, Memphis Slim and Thin Lizzy. Looking around this busy place I found some seats whilst William went to the bar. I asked the woman already sat at a table if the places were free and she said they were. In retrospect it was probably a mistake on her behalf.
Peter followed me to the seat and I said “Peter, this is Miriam and Donald”, “Hello Miriam, I’m Peter”. Now her real name was Julie! (school boy error falling for that one Pete!) Julie was from near Doncaster, probably about 60 years old and in Whitby for the weekend, staying at a hotel with her husband. I fell foul of Julie quite quickly when I asked if the 12 year age difference between her children was due to a second marriage: it wasn’t!
Peter, asked where they specifically lived and then as you would, on your first date, went onto Wikipedia to discover all you could about the Isle of Axholme. It had an interesting land drainage history and Peter was now interrogating the poor woman about a 17th Century Dutch engineer who initiated changes to the watercourse. In fairness to Julie the fightback started from here.
As an obviously great judge of character, she observed that Peter was ‘a reet gobby shite’ and, with a perspicacity that was also impressive, continued “you remind me of the most boring fucking person in class”. Attempting to retrieve his fragile relationship Peter now switched to vegetables. Obviously. With his forensic research of the Isle of Axholme he opined that she came from somewhere important as it was the capital of broccoli production in the UK. “I don’t give a shit”.
Knocking back the rest of her chardonnay she announced their departure to ‘The Station’ pub. I did ask whether when we followed she’d be in the lounge or saloon bar? She ignored my question. However, at this point some chemistry was found: with our resident babe magnet – William. A kiss was placed on the lucky youngster and then this vision of loveliness exited our lives forever.
Mike, ‘Miriam’, William and me
William whilst obviously lucky in love, on occasion, had less success with the (completely bald) landlady. On returning two ‘off’ pints was asked if he ‘liked sex and travel’ and as the proprietor was happily drinking said slops at the end of the bar the fault lay with Mike and William. Dipping back into the continuingly dwindling kitty they migrated to the elixir that is Camerons.
So how much had I consumed? I’d ducked a couple of rounds by having ‘halves’ rather than pints. William had broadly kept pace but Peter and Mike’s consumption kept them at the head of the peloton. The band finished and a return to the apartment couldn’t be postponed. Here Mike leapt into action and made cheese on toast on his remarkable home made bread. Despite this kindness Peter was not overly grateful or constructive; when Mike sought guidance on how to turn on the grill – “There’s only two knobs to choose Mike and as you’re used to playing with one knob what’s your problem?”
Our excitement was truly pathetic when Mike found a jar of Branston Pickle lurking in the cabinets. A bottle of wine was opened. Obviously. I didn’t imbibe and as you can observe neither did Peter who contributed little to the discussion on flour, various seeds, yeast, salt, brown sugar and warm water that Mike lovingly mixed for his bread.
Well past midnight (again) Master Chef finished and the boys departed. I set up camp. The next morning involved our usual heart attack on a plate.
The day was glorious and the Famous Three strode off for a cliff top walk. A little jaded from my adventures, and a little lame when it came to hiking, I bade them a fond farewell and shuffled up the hill to the car where I pointed it in the direction of York.
Regular WhatsApp posts advised that their walk went well and involved a ride on a bus! Their drive back north had traffic challenges but Edinburgh was eventually reached.
Yet another memorable weekend and I must record that the band at ‘The Elsinore’ finished with ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’. They certainly were. Epic
Sweden’s Daniel Norgren has released a really interesting record. No newcomer, he released his first record in 2006. You could call his sound stripped down but analogies with Scandi Noir are more satisfying – simple, precise, initially bleak, uncluttered and on occasion conveying a complex emotion.
“Blue Sky Moon” conjures the opening sequence of a detective drama with a single bold female stumbling around an abandoned holiday cottage in the waning light of dusk. A single note accompanied by bird song and other electronica may be more Steve Wilson than Steve Earle but this brief instrumental introduction had me hooked. Apparently Norgren decamped to a farmhouse in South West Sweden to lay all this down with three other musicians. Maybe a rustic unpolished vibe was the one he was after.
The single “The Flow” reminded me of a rough hewn Kurt Vile meets Neil Young. Kurt Vile for the hypnotic rhythm created by bass and cymbals; old Shakey for the plaintive vocal, back in the mix, and the After The Gold Rush piano. Beguiling.
After the melancholy of the opening songs “Dandelion Time” changes the vibe and delivers a Dr John groove. A skinny guitar maintains a riff pattern with sax and drums driving this along. Just need to add broiled shrimps and a PBR and we’re in NOLA. “Rolling Rolling Rolling” has a soulful groove. Norgren’s voice has an attractive yet slightly frayed timbre. It truly is an instrument of beauty. The ballad “So Glad” is sung over an organ which plays one or two chords with a sparse piano delivering the melody. This simple arrangement needs a wistful tune and a compelling voice to make it work. It does.
“Let Love Run The Game” is rock n’ roll. John Lennon might have recorded something like this in his latter years – raw, great melody and drenched with a soulful blues feel. The variety of sounds make this Americana; “When I Hold You In My Arms” takes us south of the border. An acoustic latin lilt (and soppy lyrics) encourages you to take her in your arms. If this had played out with a Mariachi band it would have been sublime.
“Wooh Dang” is a rough instrumental recording with a slightly distorted piano, which plays us out quietly. Now imagine the camera panning out as the aforementioned heroine leaves the bleak island and we watch as the seagulls fly around the stern of the ferry as she becomes a smaller fragile figure.
Throughout Norgren harnesses his talents to that vital ingredient: a tune. New to me; this and his last album Alabursy are an undoubted find. Catch up: this is important.
One downer of moving into your seventh decade is that you get circulars from your GP or the NHS exhorting you to have precautionary tests for various afflictions. This is a part of a plan to prevent something worse befalling you. If it were me then I’d insist that every male over 55 gets a copy of this album. It would add years to their life.
What a wondrous joy this is from start to finish. I’m late in getting to tell you about this triumph. It first saw the light of day in November 2017 and it’s just taken me a while to get to it. Better late than never. There has been much speculation about the origins of the sound. In fairness not all of it unkind. Plagiarising your heroes and giving the people what they want to hear is hardly a crime.
This Michigan four piece comprises three brothers – vocals, guitar and bass. The brothers were 19 years (twins) and 16 years old when they recorded. If that’s a surprise then their absorption of their dad’s record collection is no less impressive. Much has been written about being derivative of Led Zeppelin. It is; I don’t care. They’ve taken all that music and wrung out the very best of it in terms of attack, tune, dynamism and pure electric fizz.
On “Safari Song” you will have an involuntary raising of your arm when Josh Kiszka goes into a Robert Plant howl. (Otherwise it may suggest you’re clinically dead). This album opener starts with a delicious riff and booming drums (Daniel Wagner) that are so John Bonham. Some lift off. Next on “Edge of Darkness” a jagged solo electric guitar strikes a pose with some crashing percussion before the vocals arrive: this time more Geddy Lee (Rush) than Zep. It’s here that the boys, on a self penned song, show that they can write a tune and deliver 70s rock pastiches extraordinaire.
To demonstrate that the team has grown up with some amazing influences the first of two shocks arrive. Sam Cooke’s Civil Rights ballad “A Change Is Gonna Come” comes into view. The band find some lower gears and step backwards while Josh’s muscular tones compel with a heartfelt performance. “Highway Tune’ couldn’t be more corny with a reference to a ‘mama’. Did these boys have tie-dyed baby growers with flares? The next album may move onto ‘chicks’… However driving along to this tour de force could help you lose five miles through heavy traffic as you get caught up beating the hell out of your steering wheel.
The second shock arrives with a Fairport Convention cover. Yes I did write that. “Meet On The Ledge”. Not much of the folk vibe of the original survives but the chorus comes at you in a way that makes it unavoidably repeatable at the top of your voice, even in polite company. This also allows axe man supremo – Jacob Kiszka to bend a few strings in splendid fashion.
So great playing, clear and sympathetic production, wondrous hooks, great electric guitar and vocals that repeatedly astonish.
Sri Lanka Day 1 – Prince Philip, Rucksacks & Sleep Deprivation
So this is the start of a trip to the Indian sub continent. I haven’t visited before and I have some preconceived ideas as to what to expect but little else. Before you ask then I’m not taking a bicycle but something a lot more troublesome: I am taking a wife.
On the day of departure I’m not proud to say that I was as truculent and fractious as a hormonal teenager on Saturday afternoon. Leeds United were losing 0-1 at Rotherham United. Like a captive emerging from a dungeon I started to lighten up when we knocked in the equaliser and when Klich slotted home the winner I couldn’t have been a more agreeable companion seeing the bright side of all inconveniences and bordering on intolerably cheery. I can’t explain why this matters so much but it does. As the leader of the Free World would say – ‘Sad’.
However as I started this draft on our flight to Sri Lanka, via Dubai. A man in the opposite aisle fell asleep quickly after take off and was snoring. The sound that the Emirates’ A380’s engines makes was as attractive as a gentle breeze catching the palm leaves on a desert island in comparison. I’d hoped for some respite even if it meant he died in his sleep.
So abandoning my pre-occupation with banjos, fiddles and stetsons. My current wife and I departed to the Yorkshire coast to see a Luther Vandross tribute concert. For a man who should agonise about authenticity, accomplished musicianship from men with beards and discovering the true meaning of life through profound lyrics then you may ask what came over you?
Back in the day we used to worship the man. We saw him in Sheffield and London; inevitably I’ve got loads of his CD’s and vinyl. We couldn’t get enough. Despite poor Luther shuffling off this mortal coil in 2005 he still has a considerable UK following. A good friend posted a video of one of these shows and it looked so good we thought why not go?
We rolled into Bridlington, which in all honesty is on the edge of the world. A town of just over 35,000, which clings onto life in the face of the ravages of industrial decline typical of many Northern towns. Sustenance is maintained through fishing and tourism. It seems on ‘life support’. The photo below is of one of the gardens we passed on the way to the venue.
Such is the town’s isolation that Harry Cambridge, Luther for the night, made some observations about wandering around the town in the afternoon surprising the locals telling them that Vandross was dead and his is a tribute show. In fairness Vandross is unlikely to have made it to East Yorkshire.
We parked up near the venue, close to the start time, and expected that a sparsely populated auditorium would mean that the ushers would be waiting for us before starting the show. Not a bit of it. We lurched towards our seats with a G&T for Mrs Ives and a pint for me. Around us appeared to be a near sold out show of around 500 hardy souls braving a mid week February night.
My amazement was further increased when I noted nine performers on stage. A band of five with three backing singers. Straight into “Give Me The Reason” and any doubts were dispelled that this would be anything other than superb. The hits and album tracks flowed. Harry replicated all Luther’s vocal idiosyncrasies with his slightly deeper baritone compared to Vandross’ tenor. His backing singers were well drilled with perfect harmonies and dance moves.
The audience, many of whom I suspect were seeing the show for a second time, loved it. Several fuelled by alcohol and high spirits created some distractions as thirty something nurses and call centre operatives chatted to their mates about little or nothing. This was in stark contrast to a recent Americana concert I attended. It was here that a member of the audience complained to my wife that I was distracting him by him being able to see my mobile phone screen occasionally as I made notes about the songs. With this audience he’d have needed police protection if he complained.
We grooved in our seats to “So Amazing’, “Any Love”, “Stop To Love” and Stephen Still’s completely baffling “Love The One Your With”. When the pace slowed he knocked “Superstar” out of the park (and into the sea about 40 metres away). I had chills during my favourite “Dance With My Father”.
More delight came when Harry introduced one of the backing singers – ‘Happy Holly’. She stepped into the spotlight and duetted on “The Best Things In Life Are Free”. Whilst she was fantastic it has to be said that anyone can sing better than Janet Jackson. Another chanteuse – ‘Gorgeous Gemma’ made herself available to become Mariah Carey on “Endless Love”. These girls could really sing.
Harry had a lot of banter with the audience. On one song he invited a sing-a-long and as the carousing females butchered the melody he pithily observed: “this is called music and you can at least try and sing the same song!” He had stage craft. A quick Google notes his West End stage career and other tribute impersonations. He was well aware that some of the audience would only know three Vandross’ songs and maybe the rest would know the whole catalogue.
I’ve previously written about how hard the vast majority of musicians find it to make a living. At the end of the day pursuing your muse must be satisfying, not least, if you can sell concert tickets and produce volume selling albums that dwell on your personal suffering over politicians you don’t like. However at £22.50 a ticket and a nearly full house there may be a way of getting larger audiences, more satisfaction and a bigger bank balance.
Toward the end we had lift off as we peaked with “Never Too Much” and “Searchin’”; there was dancing in the aisles. One might say that there was a lot of flesh out of control and it wasn’t pretty. For my part I well remember a quote from a member of AOR band, Kansas, when asked what would get him up and dancing at a wedding he volunteered ‘a shotgun’. I wasn’t as difficult to please but my dancing resembled a man shuffling barefoot over Lego. It was a brilliant night. Viva Vandross!
Oh well back to being serious…
Post Script…
I posted the above link onto Facebook. ‘Luther’ saw the review and posted the following. Many artists read my reviews but somehow this was completely unexpected and delightful.
Seems about time for a journal after all my writing in Sri Lanka. Which reminds me, if you didn’t follow my tonyives.wordpress.com blog where I wrote the holiday up. I can confirm I will transfer it to this site soon. It was a completely splendid holiday with great weather, lots to see, kind and interesting people and the odd wild animal or two.
However, I have transferred my ‘Bike ride across the USA’ blog to this site. It was a giant job with in effect 53 posts to upload. I’ve added an epilogue as well. Revisiting the trip was wonderful and I can genuinely remember much of the detail as if it were yesterday.
The broadband mast complaint has predictably gone nowhere. I escalated my complaint to the PLC which owns Quickline (the bastards in Hull who put up this 15 metre stick). I also wrote separately to the principal shareholder and non-exec chairman (who has an OBE no less). Of course they were all going to do nothing but having sat on the odd Board with non execs then my flurry of correspondence, my Twitter posts and the letter below in the local press (York Press) is not welcomed and there will be questions asked as to how the whole project was managed. If I was ever going to be effective then I needed neighbour support. Four did write to the local MP and I can well imagine that for one of these correspondents that the mast was not an issue, one was engaged and enraged but too busy to campaign and the most affected just shrugged their shoulders and accepted it. On this basis you are up against it.
Saw a Political Party broadcast on TV the other night. It was the regular ‘weaponising’ of the NHS’ financial state to garner votes. I so loathe this. I worked in the NHS as a management consultant and there is much to go at with the inefficiencies and not least the quality of the administrative staff. However, I fail to see how it can keep pace with all the demands on it. An ageing population and the increase in cures or improvements are difficult to cope with or fund. My 87 year old father-in-law found himself in York District Hospital again last night. When I got there to collect him the staff could not be kinder or more professional. The Senior Occupational Therapist who helped me get him into the car signed off by saying to him “Eric, it was nice to meet you”. A society that is continually outraged, offended and whinging need to spend some time occasionally in the real world. There is a lot to be very happy about.
We looked at Anna’s car and the fact that the finance was shortly to end. We decided to trade the car in and get a nearly new Fiesta. This isn’t a difficult project given that the UK is full of Fiestas, even Active X’s. So we were schmoozed by one dealer who found a car in West Yorkshire on the internet at another dealership in the group. The part ex on our old car was good enough and so what was the finance to cost? We started at an interest rate of 12.3%, which was ludicrous and after some hand wringing it fell to 10.9%. We walked.
Applying for finance by using a money comparison website came up with a few bargains but we went for Marks & Spencers at 2.8%. With the dosh sorted we went to another dealership and they had a suitable car in Scotland. It was considerably cheaper than the other dealer and a lower mileage. All good? Well the catch came in the part ex. It was poor. Clearly one dealer sold at higher prices with higher part ex prices and then vice versa. Anyway we haggled the part ex price up and declined their special finance offer of 7.9%! We collected the car on Friday.
This whole negotiation requires sitting through a lot of tedious small offers – dent and scratch protection, ‘gap’ insurance, asset protection, car care packages etc etc. Next to us a couple with less credit (and will power) capitulated for all of these extra costs and probably are stuck with double digit percentage finance. I reckon a lot of folk don’t fully appreciate what the deal really is. They just see if they can cope with the monthly outlay. Somehow this all seems disreputable to me.
Anyway I’m glad we’ve waded through this treacle and can now enjoy the new car.
Lastly, I noted with bemusement that Andre Previn’s passing included cursory references to the London Symphony Orchestra, being an accomplished jazz pianist or writing Oscar nominated songs. However prominent reference was made to his appearance on the Morecambe & Wise Show. I suspect he’s laughing wherever he’s gone.
Sometimes I’m overwhelmed: genuinely. The conveyor belt of Americana releases roll past revealing quantities of neglected beauty. How an artist gets the recognition and exposure seems as elusive as holding a winning lottery ticket.
Kramer in promoting her Country Americana release Valley Of The Bones played a few songs on a Facebook Live event. Between the songs she told us of her husband having his debit card refused when buying a sandwich and her scheduled small time gig later at a local bar. Not for her that comforting call asking her to do an Elton John cover for an ersatz Country album where some major label artist has to bowl up to sing a weary vocal over some lethargic arrangement (and then stuff that wad into her purse).
However, let me pick this off the conveyor belt. The North Carolinian’s third album is packed with memorable acoustic led tunes, an expressive and attractive voice with autobiographical stories that leave you staggered at the breadth of topic and profundity.
“Hymn” she describes as a homework assignment from her songwriting mentor, Mary Gauthier ,who concluded all her self-deprecation wasn’t “cute or charming”. The gauntlet went down to write a song from a perspective of self-love. So she set to work and wrote this song on a backpacking trip around Italy. With a band in an acoustic setting she sings:
“Now I’m gonna swing this hammer like you ain’t never seen
I’ve got railroad ties and jasmine vines on the walls of my dreams
I’ve spent year apologizing for a heart that’s true and clean
Now I’m gonna swing this hammer like you ain’t never seen”
“Waffle House Song” is as jaunty as you might expect (and anyone who fits in a name check for Travis Tritt within the first 38 seconds cannot fail with me). She’s upbeat about her recently broken heart and it seems hash browns have restorative properties. With Billy Cardine’s dobro picking some equally therapeutic notes this sails along and is another gem lost to Country radio. A potential boxset could be taken from the lyric of “I’ll See You Crazy & Raise You Mine”:
“Two years ago for Valentines
I got your name tattooed and you got mine
They spelled my name wrong but you didn’t mind, you said
‘Actually if you squint, you don’t see the extra e’”
A heart warming tale of an enduring love albeit bordering on the dysfunctional. Again the band keeps this upbeat tune danceable with solos from Eliot Wadopian (bass) and Nicky Sanders (fiddle).
There are two songs about the loss of a child. Both are beautiful and arresting. Her sonorous and sweeping vocal recounts the vacuum and abandoned dreams over a simple piano on “Child”. The title track revisits grief in a conversation. This time the pace is picked up and the depth of emotion added to by the band. The words alone make these epic for their beauty and poignancy. Recent gold dust from Courtney Marie Andrews or Joni Mitchell comes to mind.
After the despair she signs off with “Wedding Vows” and strings complement the vocal of her purring satisfaction at the sanctuary and relief that the search is over for a soulmate. So before this passes by then step over that painted line and reach in to grab it quickly before it slides by.
Carll’s sixth release has 12 songs spread over a canvas of diverse sounds – acoustic, rockabilly, swaggering rock n’ roll, folk meets bluegrass, lush strings and a Chuck Berry pastiche. This combination is delivered with considerable aplomb and accompanied with his sharp wit and lyrical craft.
Carll’s said of the album “I take stock of myself and the world around me and write about it”. We switch between the themes of politics, relationships and his philosophical take on where he is in his life now. He is an established songwriter with a talent for a lyric; when harnessed to these tunes we have an album that deserves critical acclaim; not least from this scribe.
If a woman wanted to have her personality exposed then “None’ya” is a love song extraordinaire. It is a gently rolling acoustic song with a catchy chorus, telling of his fiancé, Allison Moorer. She seems a strong yet eccentric personality, with tales such as painting ceilings turquoise and sharp rebukes at his seeking to establish where she’s been. None’ya business!
“Times Like These” follows a well trodden path. By the title you can work out that Carll has joined that long line of Americana musicians sharing his thoughts on the Presidency. He’s more bemused than angry and seeks to tough it out rather than storm Capital Hill.
The single “Jesus and Elvis” came out in 2017 for Kenny Chesney. Now one of its co-writers sings a “story of a family, a bar, the memories it carries and the things that would comfort us”. It’s got clever wordplay and taps into that Country music tradition of delightful song titles and twists. Carll’s slightly stretched voice brings personality over a John Prine like tune which thumps along with a Country lilt and some attractive piano. Eventually a trumpet joins the band and adds to the song’s wistfulness.
Bluegrass banjo delivers the album’s best melody with “What It Is”. Carll takes stock of what he has: ‘The future holds a promise that it doesn’t have to keep but it might not need keeping anymore … And what it is is right here in front of me and I’m not letting go”.
“I Will Stay” takes the lights low and finds him caught by a spotlight with his acoustic guitar. With a simple heartfelt melody he offers commitment and tells of his unwaivering love (despite the inevitable ups and downs to come). Strings embellish the beauty. A magnificent album closer.
Breakfast included a party of cyclists. This group of elderly pedallers hailed from Melbourne (Australia, not the village near York). One of the party was a lot younger. By the coffee urn I asked if he was the guide? ‘No’ he said. He was the son of one of the party. I quipped that given his age he presumably was expected to fetch and carry for the rest of the party? Apparently that wasn’t the case but he was their ‘IT Help Desk’ in residence!
As she was developing a penchant for complaining Anna sought a different tent for the next night: one further away from the early risers in the kitchen. Before returning to our new abode then there was the small matter of elephants. At the Udawalawe National Park we clambered on board our 4 x 4’s and set off down the bumpy tracks to find wildlife. We certainly found the odd elephant or two!
There were so many jeeps it was hard to drive around. Here in the park I regularly inhaled diesel fumes as we parked up for passengers to gorge themselves on photos. Craig wittily commented, under his breath, that we were ‘experiencing a large migration of safari jeeps’.
This park had some other creatures including water buffalo. It was a privilege to get close to the elephants and see how they ate. Note that one elephant was apt to reach into the jeeps, this caused a little bit of anxiety for the passengers.
From here we went to an Elephant Rehab Centre. We were sat across a small moat watching about 30 animals troop into a large pen for some milk. This was a supplement to the diet of vegetation they spent all day consuming.
Elsewhere in the pen was some broken branches with tasty leaves. You could see that the babies were not sure how to consume the leaves and watched the larger elephants a little lost. This partly explains why all these ages and sizes come together. It’s because the babies can watch the other animals behave and learn: this is what would happen if they had a mother to teach them.
Sri Lanka only has a few thousand elephants but had, Prabash suggested, up to a million before the British arrived. I think the inference was that the expat gentry and military had shot them all. It has to be said that ivory was highly sought back in the day. I inherited some ivory figurines from my grandmother. She probably bought them without a second thought about the elephant population early in the 20th Century. There was a thriving industry in Europe in ornaments and piano keys.
However, I think you also have to look at a shrinking habitat and a growing Sri Lankan population displacing these giants as a contributory factor. In 1980 the population was around 15 million. Today it’s nearer 21 million. No doubt it was a fraction of that 100 years earlier. Apparently marauding elephants, in pursuit of the contents of farmer’s fields, account for about 25 human deaths a year. It’d be reasonable to guess that bereft families have killed the odd mammal. Today in these discreet areas they are kept in by electrified fences.
It was tremendous to see these animals being nurtured. Human contact is minimised and the plan is to return the animals exclusively into the wild when appropriate.
Up to this point the G Adventures itinerary had been superb. However, we ended up with a spare afternoon without an activity. In fact the plan was to spend a further night under canvas and go back to the campsite. Campsites and canvas are awful on hot sunny days – you’re best getting there when the day’s heat is falling. Prabash had the solution for us staying around the swimming pool at a hotel we’d had lunch at. The logical question was why didn’t we stay at this hotel or get on the bus and head south nearer our final destination?
The campsite meal was nearly identical to the night before. The insect bite relief came in handy at 2am after one of these little bastards bit my thumb.
It was the final bus ride as we headed south to the coast. We had lunch in Matara which is about as south as you can get on the island. The reason for this direction was to pick up a motorway back up to the suburbs of Colombo and Negombo. The speed of the motorway was worth this ‘long way round’ rather than a twisty urban route. As we’re zooming along there a pop and a bit of a shake. The rear offside tyre had punctured.
We were all allowed to stay on the bus whilst the driver and assistant did a swift job in fitting the spare. Ferrari or McLaren would have been proud. Negombo was our last location/stop on the trip. Anna had booked us two nights. We all went out for the last supper at a fish restaurant and there was lots of clinking of drinking glasses by way of our goodbyes.
Anna signed off in style (sat next to our excellent driver)
Negombo is a bustling town with a coastline dotted with hotels. Ours is fine and nicely sat on the beach, it may not be in the first flush of youth but neither is Negombo.
I’m aware patronising Westerners can be wrong in their lofty condemnation but it’s useful to show the other side of the coin as regards the beautiful Sri Lankan countryside. (Yet again I would add there is rubbish on some of our UK housing estates but we have a local Council prepared to collect their trash).
This was found amongst the fishermen on the shore mending their nets or sorting their catches. Why not pick it all up? I’m assuming that there is an agency that would carry the detritus if it were all bagged up and ready to collect. The town itself was heaving. Lots of small shops selling everything.
Being back at sea level meant the heat was intense and I walked around a stationery shop literally melting. I was afraid to touch anything made of paper as I might leave it wet.
So one last night and it was up early to get to the airport and then a long two flights back home. Amazingly on the Dubai to Manchester leg we had live Premiership football – I watched three games as well as tracked the Leeds United score on the internet. My oh my how the inflight entertainment has come along.
So in summary Anna and I enjoyed this holiday immeasurably. It was always interesting and well paced with lots to see. The country is vibrant and colourful with kindly people who never posed any safety issues or discomfort. The weather was amazing and transportation quite easy. The culture was absorbing and educational. I did fancy cycle touring much of it (not the bigger towns) such was the quality of road surfaces, availability of food and water and the gentle gradients. The guide and his crew were truly exceptional. I hope we were seen as reasonable and that we all tipped them adequately.
Being on a bus was interesting with such a mix of nationalities in the party. We got along fine although it took eight days for one person to pluck up the interest or confidence to start a conversation with me. The two millennials were brilliant and I learned a lot from both. The ‘singles’ were a trifle indulgent in a conversation: always happy to bang on about their lives in the most excruciating detail, loving the attentive audience, but never thinking to ask you a question back. Maybe this is why their single?
Only one member of the group was a burden. I haven’t talked about them here as it seemed mean and a downer. I think they had some mental health issues. One amusing story was that at one place we transferred from the bus to two jeeps for a safari. Two of the party took a toilet break including this person. When the first of the party reappeared there was a big shout from both jeeps for them to join one of the two jeeps. This shout went up because no one wanted the remaining person to join them. Craig, in this instance, was touched by the surprising affection he’d suddenly accrued!
We filled in the questionnaire saying what we thought about the trip. We were happy to give top marks except for the camping.
Kandy was a busy and noisy place: there were no regrets about our leaving and We started a long slow climb south. The roads outside Colombo were motorway standard for a short distance before becoming single lane. Despite being single lane they got progressively easier as the traffic lightened until we got to Kandy. After Kandy we had a long series of hairpins for 50 miles and 1,300 metres of climbing to Nuwara Eliya. At 1,860 metres high we climbed well into the mountains and into the rain!
The scenery has always been green but we went from sub tropical to alpine. Waterfalls, tall trees, steep roads and tea plantations. It was beautiful.
Our ascent behind the ever present tuk-tuks was slow but steady and we were invited to pile out for regular photo opportunities.
At Blue Field Tea we had a quick factory tour. The factory wasn’t working as it was a national holiday to celebrate independence. It was fascinating to say the least. The factory itself dates back to 1921 and was set up by the British. In fact Prabash ran through the British ‘abuse’ of the Chinese during the years we ‘lured’ the Chinese onto opium in order to extract their tea and silver. We Brits by then had a great taste for the little leaf and even went as far as to take the leaf from the now spaced out Chinese and plant it elsewhere in the Empire. We brought it to Ceylon. From here a great industry grew up and still flourishes today. Many of the producers have British names for their plantations such as ‘Edinburgh’. (Sadly not the Duke of Edinburgh).
(Despite abolishing slavery in 1833) Prabash advised that we brought Tamils from Southern India to work the tea plantations as ‘slaves’ in the 1860s. I think there was the imposition of indenture and considerable restriction. However, It comes to mind that a guarantee of regular paid work (and accommodation) and an aptitude for working hard made the recruitment attractive to employer and employee.
The factory made about eight types of tea from the leaves they grew on the steep slopes around. The most popular was the Broken Orange Pekoe which is more commonly known as English Breakfast Tea. The factory kept about 20% of their production for their own sales but the balance went to Colombo to the auctions. Apparently the big drinkers are the Poles, Brits and Russians. We sampled a few variants and had a spot of lunch.
Continuing to the top we came to rest at Nuwara Eliya. This town was established by the British as an administrative centre for the Civil Service in the 19th Century. Not least because the expats could escape the heat below. British pursuits of horse racing, boating, golf, cricket, hunting on horse back etc took hold for the gentry and many of the buildings acquired a British look. It sounds like period drama.
‘British’ buildings can be seen including the Post Office below:
The centre of town is down at heal but there are hotels that host the tourists who come to experience some of the colonial grandeur. We stayed at The Grand Hotel, which felt like a country hotel back in Blighty.
Prabash spoke highly of it and I have to say the service was sublime and all things worked! After checking into the room the present Mrs Ives complained to the management about the mattress being too soft. Staff found an alternative mattress for Her Ladyship.
We then strolled into town for a quick look and for the third of our commercial ventures of the day. Anna who isn’t an enthusiastic holiday shopper started the day as she meant to go on. Firstly at a silk printing shop where she tried on a selection of garments before buying two gifts for ‘Cost Centre 1’ and ‘Cost Centre 2’, namely our daughters. I don’t want to ruin their surprise by saying what was bought but it’s not often you can find lime green silk sequinned balaclavas. They say you can always tell that a person is a Sri Lankan if they automatically smile at you. My salesman lost this national gift as we started in US dollars and went to Rupees. Along the way we came to two prices of which I sought a third lower one. I must have got it right because he looked downright miserable when he took the cash*.
The second deal involved two small ornamental elephants (yes, I know I think she’s losing her mind) where Prabash took over the haggle to Anna’s satisfaction. The last was me again and this time the shop owner who parted with a fleece cum top for Anna looked distinctly too happy about our transaction. I strolled away knowing that it was probably a win, draw and loss overall.
We dined in the hotel and retired early. One dish caught the eye!
We’re all on a WhatsApp group called ‘So Lost’. This is the name agreed for our group. Photos are being circulated and this is how I got the leopard photo from Helena of Toronto.
We set the alarm for 4.40am. This lunacy facilitated a one hour drive to The Horton Plains National Reserve. In the dark a fleet of mini vans raced up the winding road in the dark. It was like being at the back of a Formula 1 Grand Prix. Vans overtook where the narrow road did or didn’t allow and we were thrown around. On rail crossings, on pieces of road with sheer drops or where they could wind up their tired old trucks to sufficient speed to race past each other. Needless to say the hotel’s pack up breakfast could be eaten or worn as we ascended. At the top we joined 20 or 30 other vans in a undisciplined line to get into the park. This madness meant an inexplicable traffic jam for 40 minutes wondering what was going on and watching dawn break.
Eventually we were disgorged and embarked on a hike to two wonderful view points: The Greater World’s End and the Mini World’s End. They were amazing. The hike was a walk of 6 miles with many other tourists – Japanese, Chinese, French and Brits. We’d been advised to wear hiking boots. I wore trainers but other tourists wore mainly sensible footwear but flip flops and Crocs were spotted. The park rule was that you were not allowed to take polythene and our bags were checked. Despite this there was a little litter on the trail despite signs advising not to. This really frustrates me.
Back at the bus I discussed bikes, including his Brompton, with Ching and we soon arrived back at the hotel. We cleaned up, had lunch and then started a four drive down from the Highlands to Udawalawe. Anna discussed Norway with Louise toward the back of the bus. Louise was regaling her with some long detailed story about ‘house sitting’ in Oslo. Part of the discussion involved Louise’s difficulty in persuading the house cat to come into the property. Anna was volunteering a suitable ‘call’ in Norwegian. Those around them in the bus put in their headphones to shut out this nonsense.
The scenery was never short of staggering and we saw ladies working in the fields.
We passed through Ella. This is an up and coming spot with younger back packing tourists. We stopped for a ‘biological break’ and bought some coffee in this trendy spot. On the long drive we passed through many settlements. I’m aware that these locals are not wealthy and their lives don’t prioritise making their villages pretty. However, a few coats of emulsion paint, a bit of gloss and some renewed signage would have lifted everything dramatically.
You could get well away buying your booze from here!
I wasn’t the only grumpy person complaining about being back under canvas for two nights. This isn’t like my cycle camping at all. Just somehow less space, no hot water, terrible wi-fi, poor lighting (to sort your luggage), insects, frogs, lizards and a bit noisy first thing in the morning. It was turning dark as we stumbled around our tents and again under a starlit sky we dined outside, which was lovely. After our dining we returned to the tent to enable the mosquitos to dine.
*Kandy was the last time I saw my Debit Card. I didn’t realise my loss until two days later when I needed it again. I think I lost it at this shop: sweet revenge for my maligned shopkeeper. At the time of cancelling it then there had been no fraudulent use of the card.
Tony Ives’ Blog 